


Kisses, Pouring Over Our Bodies Like Starlight

by FinAmour



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: First Kiss, First Person, Friends to Lovers, Greek Mythology - Freeform, M/M, POV Achilles (Song of Achilles), Pining, The Iliad References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:01:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22795966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinAmour/pseuds/FinAmour
Summary: There was not a single inch of his body that I did not desire. But if I gave in, I would not be able to restrain myself. Not this time. If I were to hold him in my arms, I would be holding the most precious thing I have ever known. I would lose control. I would not simply kiss him—I would consume him. I would drive my body into his body, crushed by the weight of every second spent without my lips on his.
Relationships: Achilles & Patroclus (Song of Achilles), Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles)
Comments: 42
Kudos: 432





	Kisses, Pouring Over Our Bodies Like Starlight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AllHeartsAreBroken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllHeartsAreBroken/gifts).



> “ _Makes a cathedral, him pressing against me, his lips at my neck, and yes, I do believe his mouth is heaven, his kisses falling over me like stars.”_ \- Richard Siken

If there was a time, even in my youth, that I did not know the curve of his lip as he smiled upon me, I could not tell you. 

I was still a child when he came to us. His skin was smeared with dirt and ash, his thick hair tangled with leaves and branches. He was roughly the same age as myself, though by size he appeared much younger. He was alone. Most of the boys arrived this way: unceremoniously—a bee joining a hive. 

He was different. He was not afraid. He appeared plain and penniless, but his precociousness told a different story. He smelled like the sea, though not in the way my mother did—of moss and air so heavy with salt that your throat would go dry. No, he smelled the way the sea should: like sunlight and coconut, or a breeze carrying rain from a storm. 

I may have been a prince, but I was not spoiled. I knew the feeling of dust and mud beneath my bare feet. I knew the coldness of the hard ground against my cheek after having fallen asleep gazing at the stars. I had hobbies that others deigned too common for the son of a goddess. I was always too happy to care. 

But I did not know, then, how it felt to want something I could not have.

Over the room, his eyes met mine, and our gazes held. I could not look away from his bronzed, freckled skin and his plum-colored lips.

It was the first time I felt it, though I did not know its name. 

***

It had several names, as I later learned. Longing. Pining. Wanting. Yearning. These were the words of celebrated poets; yet they felt hollow. 

But the name of the feeling is not what matters. What matters is that it is there. It was there the first time I laid eyes on him. It was there the last time as well. By then, of course, it had grown into something so deep and beyond measure that no tongue could hope to utter it. 

Even language—with its breadth of nuance, and its constant evolution—is a chariot too feeble to carry such a thing. For centuries, poets and scholars have endeavored to do so; the Greeks alone have seven different words for it. But this is not possible, even by a god. Feelings are divine in nature, and have no such earthly representation.

When I grew to understand this feeling, I never spoke of it. I was never good with words. Not like he was. I opened my heart in other ways. I offered him my room. I gave him my time, and took him to my lessons. And in return, he gave me companionship, and joy, and laughter. I felt I had received the better end of the deal. 

The first time he kissed me, it turned my world upside down. The feeling had manifested—in the eager sips of his lips on mine, still sweet with the fig we had shared. I wanted to hold him, to drink him in. But instead, I pulled away. I don't know how. I must have summoned all the divine willpower I possessed. I could see the shame in his eyes as I rose to go, but I could not think of what to say. I did not know what to do. So I did what I do best.

I ran.

I had no destination, but I ran over hills until sunset. I ran for what felt like hours. If the Earth were round, I would have circled it twice. 

I was afraid of my mother. I hoped she would not find me. But she did, as a mother always does. I expected her to be angry; I was shocked to see she was simply resigned. It was somehow worse. She knew. She had always known my secret, though it had remained unspoken. It filled her with a powerful anger that I never understood.

And on that night, it finally made sense:

I am her son. The son of a goddess. Foretold to be the greatest fighter the world has ever known. And in a world of endless war, why would such a warrior choose a life of peace? Why would I sacrifice my god-given destiny for a mortal—one who could not even bear my children? In her eyes, I was to become a legend; one that stories would be told of for centuries. And not a single word would be spoken of the man I so stubbornly held close. 

I could not begin to envision the life she wanted for me. My life had not been long, but it had been happy. I had him to thank. And I would choose him. Always—even if I would never again taste his lips, or feel his soft skin at my fingertips, I would lie beneath the stars with him, telling jokes until he cried with laughter. I would sing to him until we slept, our fingers woven innocently together atop blades of wet grass. I would be happy with him at my side as we grew older and happier still, and would remain happy until the day we died. In this, my glory would lie. 

She knew this, and it disgusted her; all she needed was proof.

I was to leave Phthia the following day. I would go to study with Chiron, a wise centaur who lived in the mountains. Because of what she knew, and what I knew, and what he did not. And how could he? I had left him in the wake of our first kiss. If there was ever a time to tell him, it had passed. If he had felt that way for me, the feeling had surely subsided. And who could blame him? I had been a fool. 

He hated me; of this I was sure. So I did not fight when I was told to go. This pleased my mother; I found I did not care. 

He and I exchanged stoic goodbyes, and as I walked away from him, I closed my eyes, praying to any god who would listen: that he would follow me, and that I would one day be granted another chance to show him.

And I made a vow: if that time were to come, I would not allow my mother to stifle my truth.

***

My prayers were answered. He joined Chiron and myself. It was the happiest time of my life.

Time went by. We became young men. And though he and I grew closer, I found myself wanting more. Of what, exactly, I did not know. We spent every moment together—yet I missed him. There was no place we could be that was close enough to each other; no word coming from one another’s mouths that we did not hold onto. My fingers twitched and burned with the desire to touch him. 

I was insatiable. Day after day, he filled my thoughts. I feared that I was going mad. 

Finally, I sought Chiron’s advice. I had been reading the scriptures, and I told him there was a word I wanted to know. 

“It’s this feeling." I spoke clearly, as though singing the first verse of a song. "For a person you admire. But it’s more than a simple affection. It’s deep in your belly, fluttering like the wings of a bird, licking up your spine like a flame. Your chest becomes tight, and your neck becomes hot. Your urge to scream their name from the hilltops battles your urge to vomit. When you're with them, you fly above the heavens. Yet you know you cannot drift far, because they will always keep you grounded.” 

“It is easy for a man to feel elevated,” Chiron responded. “Many things can create that feeling. Wine. Lust. Greed. But to come back—there must be something worth the return. So the question, Achilles,” he asked, although a twinkle in his eye told me he already knew the answer. “...after flying high, what is your reason for returning to earth?”

I, too, knew the answer. But I believed it to be a secret, hidden in the tiny space between our bodies as we slept. 

I did not expect Chiron would know. I suppose, if he did not, it was only out of willful ignorance. He had lived on the earth longer than the trees that hovered above our heads. The three of us spent every waking hour together, besides. And though night always came, casting shadows that veiled our deep affection—there was not enough darkness in the world to conceal its light. My love for him did not set as the sun does; nor did it wax and wane with the moon. It rose from the earth, unyielding, its deep roots as intertwined as our memories; its branches evergreen, bearing fruit that only our lips might touch.

I would have happily kept it this way forever, but I suppose there was only so much fruit to be eaten before someone noticed its sweet aroma. 

***

I stood before Chiron’s unwavering gaze, feeling the urge to defend myself. I did not need to. Chiron was not my enemy; he was simply trying to help me understand. 

“As you are aware,” Chiron continued. “There are many words in our language akin to this feeling you describe. Philia. Agape. Xenia.” But he knew none of those words would do; he was only biding time as I wrestled with my thoughts. 

“It is him,” I said finally. “He is the reason. He is the one who grounds me.” 

Chiron nodded. He understood. "There is yet another word. _Philtatos._ Most beloved. The soul’s other half. The one you love beyond all measure, who is more valuable to you than a kingdom is to its king. One you would give your life to, and for, unflinchingly.”

“Philtatos,” I echoed softly. The word was pleasing, but still not enough.

“I believe I know a better word than that,” I said.

“Then you should use it. If you are happy with what you have chosen, there is no reason to keep it to yourself.” 

I knew that his words were more than an acknowledgement of the lesson. I knew he was giving me his blessing. 

***

All that was left, then, was to show him. 

I no longer cared if my mother was watching me, but I wasn’t so brazen to assume I could take him anywhere I pleased. In the meadow, kisses pouring over our bodies like starlight; or hidden behind the fruit trees, licking honey off one another’s necks. Because if Thetis could see, there were other gods who could see, and the wrath of one is more than enough. 

I had an idea.

"Thetis." I summoned her, and she appeared. 

I continued this for days, summoning her everywhere, at every time. On the beach at dawn, on a hill during mid-afternoon. At midnight before a kindled fire. She pretended to quickly grow weary of it, but would always heed my call, and I suspected she was not as unhappy as she let on. 

One afternoon, I washed my face in the tiny cave that had become our bedsit. It was only myself there; he had gone to practice his suturing with Chiron. 

I summoned my mother, and she did not come. 

I said her name once more. And then again. “Thetis, Thetis, Thetis,” I chanted, growing so loud that I was certain the spirits of the underworld could hear me. 

She did not come.

I stepped outside of the cave into the sunlight, setting my bare foot onto the dry rock, and I called her name. Immediately, a breeze blew past, heavy with her scent. 

Before I said another word, she already understood what I had done. What I now understood myself: that she, nor any other god, could see inside that cave. 

She was quite unhappy with me. Still, I did not care. 

***

When he returned to the cave a few hours later, we smiled at one another, and we ate the supper I made. The air felt thick with the words I could not say. 

And what would I say? I could not simply tell him of my intentions; it would be trite. But as I laid there in silence, watching the moonlight on his hip bones and the curves of his back, I feared I would suffocate from the words becoming lodged in my throat. 

I finally spoke. I did not reveal myself directly, but shared what I’d newly come to learn: that my mother could not see us in this cave. If his thoughts mirrored my own—stirring with the things we would do with each other's bodies—he would understand, and his response would be my guide. 

I hoped it would guide me well. I had never done this. What was I to do? Split my chest open and pour my heart into his? Whisper into his ear each word of every song I’d dedicated to the sound of his laughter alone? Simply lay my head upon his stomach until our breaths became aligned? 

But he did nothing out of the ordinary; he came to lie down next to me, just as he always had. This meant, at the very least, that he did not take my method to heart and run off into the night. And yet, it did not answer what I needed to know. He either fully understood my intentions, or he fully did not; there was no in between. 

I could make out his flushed cheeks in the low light; I could see his quickening pulse. And his eyes—wanting, but afraid. Afraid of wanting. 

I longed to show him that there was nothing to fear. That there would be no running this time. That if it were my choice, I would never, ever leave him. But I was also afraid, for reasons that were my own. 

There was not a single inch of his body that I did not desire. But if I gave in, I would not be able to restrain myself. Not this time. If I were to hold him in my arms, I would be holding the most precious thing I have ever known. I would lose control. I would not simply kiss him—I would consume him. I would drive my body into his body, crushed by the weight of every second spent without my lips on his. 

The room had grown quiet. I did not know how much time had passed since I became paralyzed by my own thoughts. I turned onto my side to see him. His eyes were closed, but only lightly. He stirred, and his breath was still shallow. I was sure he was awake, but did not attempt to move him. 

My desire to touch him had temporarily subsided. I wanted only to look at him—watch him breathe the air between our bodies that held the truth we had never spoken. 

Shadows danced on his golden skin. His chestnut hair, lightened by the sea and the sun, became tangled in the breeze. His body was soft as velvet but for his throat whenever he swallowed. He was naked beneath the covers. I did not need to lift them to know what was underneath. Though I had not touched him, I knew his body better than I knew my own. Every freckle, every scar. Every patch of hair, and where it led to. 

He was more beautiful than I had ever seen him; but I had told myself that every night for as long as I could remember. 

His eyelids fluttered open. He looked up at me, the fear in his eyes conquered by the desire. His irises were the color of the quartz that lined our abode; his pupils were wide and dark. I noticed the subtle twitch of his fingers, his gaze flickering to my lips—he wanted this as much as I did. 

Whatever _this_ was. 

With no knowledge of what I was doing, nor plan laid out before me, I kissed him. I gave in to it, quickly learning that our bodies and our mouths knew more than we did. I laid myself over him, kissing every part of him I could reach. There was no more air between us that held our secret. It was told by his fingers as they carded through my hair; by my tongue as I dragged it over his chest. 

I kissed him and kissed him, sliding my length against his. We grew to the perfect rhythm, our limbs and hips and stomachs moving in kind. I felt him go still, and he called out my name as he trembled into my hand. 

It was all I needed. My entire body shivered and seized, arching forward into his. He whispered my name, over and over, and I was helpless against it. I wanted to say his name in return—but as I poured myself onto his stomach, already sticky with sweat and his own release, I was speechless. 

He was always better at words than I. 

For some time after, we lay there, naked, as we had done so many nights before. But on this night, my fingers traced the line of dark, curly hair beneath his belly button, and he did not tell me to stop. He simply pulled me closer, softly settling his lips at the crown of my head.

I had never felt more safe than in that moment. 

“Patroclus,” I murmured. It fell from my lips like a prayer. 

No other words would suffice, for his name was the loveliest of them all. I had said it thousands of times before, but there was a weight in it that was new; as if to prove it could tether me to earth.

He said nothing in return. He didn’t need to. Our truth had already been spoken. 


End file.
